


I Can't Be with You

by Lothiriel84



Series: A is for aromantic [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aromantic, Asexuality, Dubcon Kissing, Friendship, Gen, Misunderstandings, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Relationships, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: Put your hands in my handsAnd come with meWe'll find another end
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A is for aromantic [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513838
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	I Can't Be with You

“Oh, but he must be,” Madame Tracy assures him over a cup of tea, and he’s so out of his depth he doesn’t even attempt to contradict her. What if Madame Tracy is right, and Crowley is indeed _in love_ with him, the human way? Angels are simply not wired that way, he can personally vouch on that; demons, on the other hand, he’s not so sure. Still, Crowley is hardly your average demon, which makes the entire conundrum even trickier for him to puzzle out.

Demons aren’t supposed to love, and yet, Aziraphale can hardly deny the fact that this particular one has been loving him for about as long as they’ve known each other; he may have been slower to catch up on his own end of the deal, so to speak, but the feeling has been entirely mutual for the better part of their shared history, the occasional disagreement notwithstanding. He may have been too terrified about the impending apocalypse to concede the point, back at the bandstand, but Crowley was right – they have been friends for six thousand years, and not once has he suspected there might be something lacking from their friendship.

Well, there’s nothing for it but to gently prod at the very nature of their relationship, hoping it will prompt Crowley to show his hand for once; after long and careful consideration, he decides the best way to go about it is to start sprinkling their customary outings with romantic gestures – nothing too flashy, just a suggestion to be planted, see if it catches on. As someone entirely neutral about such matters, it will be no hardship for Aziraphale to pursue this particular line of enquiry, and adjust their current friendship accordingly.

He starts with flowers, because he likes them; carefully selects a tasteful bouquet as per the well-respected tradition of Victorian floriography, waits for Crowley to drop by his bookshop to pick him up for dinner to present him with it. Crowley turns an improbably shade of pink and starts spluttering helplessly – whether out of embarrassment at being found out, or sheer mortification, Aziraphale isn’t entirely clear. In the end he simply vanishes the offending bouquet to the nearest available vase, and they both elect to pretend the incident never happened.

Next he tries with touch – the occasional brush of fingers, a hand lingering on the other’s arm only slightly longer than propriety would dictate, or at least it used to, back in those dear old Victorian times. Frustratingly enough, Crowley keeps giving out mixed signals on most occasions; he appears to enjoy the physical contact in and of itself, until he figures out it’s done on purpose, which invariably causes him to panic. None of the books consulted by Aziraphale can seem to cast much light on the issue, and he’s not especially keen on sharing his findings with Madame Tracy herself, either.

In the end, he figures he might as well go all in, and cuts him off mid-ramble by pressing what he’s fairly sure constitutes a kiss to the corner of the demon’s mouth. Crowley immediately scrambles as far away from him as the backroom sofa will allow him, touching his fingertips to his lips, and looking for all the world like Aziraphale just sprouted a snake’s head and bit him.

“What – what’s this, Angel?” he croaks, his voice rapidly edging the point of breakdown. “I thought we were on the same page here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmurs, somewhere between confused and not-so-secretly relieved. “Are we, then?”

“Honestly? I don’t think I know anymore,” Crowley shakes his head, tucking his limbs in such a manner to take up even less space on Aziraphale’s battered old sofa. “I had no idea you required – physical affection, but if that’s what you’re after, I suppose I could – huh, do my best to, to try and meet your needs? If you really want me to?”

Aziraphale’s decorative heart takes a swan dive to the bottom of his chest cavity. “My dear boy, I promise I would never be as selfish as all that.”

Crowley sniffles, slouches a little against the armrest. “Care to explain what that was all about, then?”

“I merely thought you might be interested. Although I have to admit, in retrospect, that was hardly the best way to go about it.”

“You could have just asked, Angel,” and there’s a trace of his trademark teasing to his tone now. “We’re friends, remember?”

“Indeed we are,” Aziraphale echoes, genuinely delighted. “ _Friends_. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Let’s drink to that, then,” Crowley grins, reaching for the bottle. “To six thousand years more, Angel.”

They clink the wine glasses, their eyes sparkling with familiar warmth. Crowley settles back to his previous position, half-slouched against Aziraphale’s side, traces the tip on his finger over the rim of his newly empty glass. “Now that’s all cleared, I can’t say I’d be completely opposed to, hmm, a little more touching. Platonic touching, I mean. If that’s alright with you, that is.”

“My dear boy,” he says, and reaches for his hand. Crowley smiles, and laces their fingers together.

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale is romance-indifferent, Crowley romance-repulsed. They still love each other very much.


End file.
